


A Kiss On The Hand Was Enough

by SapientiaSerpentAstuzia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Big Brother Fíli, Confident Bilbo, Dom Thorin, Dom/sub, Dwarves, Dwarves and Hobbits Have the Same Lifespan, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Gay Sex, Horny Thorin, Kinky Bilbo, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, Loving Thorin, M/M, Middle Earth, Other, Overprotective Dwarves, Overprotective Thorin, Powerful Bilbo, Sacrifice, Second Chances, Second Time, Seduction, Sibling Incest, Sub Bilbo Baggins, Time Travel Fix-It, Voice Kink, Warrior Bilbo, horny dwarves, mostly canon compliant, re-do, the hobbit fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapientiaSerpentAstuzia/pseuds/SapientiaSerpentAstuzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo awakens in his Bag-End bed with a lifetime's worth of knowledge and a heart full of sorrow; so what else is a hobbit to do but go on a life changing adventure that he'd already once explored? It's not everyday that one finds themselves with a second chance at life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss On The Hand Was Enough

Bilbo shuddered; a cold and frosty chill sweeping his frail body. The hobbit rolled over; desperately clawing for warmth from his thin coat – wishing that he had more than his arms to use as a pillow. Bilbo was struggling to fall asleep, with his thoughts and weather plaguing his weary mind. He could feel is heart aching for the very one that broke it – Bilbo very much wished for sleep as it was his only relief from his desires. The hobbit fluttered his stiff eyelashes as a small snowflake descended from above with aid from a breeze - as his coverage was just a small alcove; Bilbo knew he would be in for a rough night. All because of one dwarf; Thorin Oakenshield – King under the Mountain.

* * *

 

Bilbo awoke gasping from a coldness so cold it burned into his very memories. Yet, he found as he blinked in his surroundings, it was a memory itself. Bilbo felt a skeptical shock run through him; out of all places to wake he did not expect his home in Bag End. His warm, soft and clean bed was a nice surprise, Bilbo decided; and whether he was alive or dead, he was satisfied. Yet the comforting pillows could not quench his curiosity. The question – _how, in the name of Middle Earth, did I end up here?_ – circulated in his brain like a fish swimming in a very shallow puddle.

“Am I dreaming?” Bilbo muttered, his soft whisper startling the silence. The last thing the hobbit could remember was his old, frail body trying to climb the Misty Mountains. Yes, Bilbo knew he was foolish to dare such a large task at such an age – nothing could sway the hobbit’s mind. _All I wanted to do was to see Erebor for one last time, to apologise to Thorin; my lovely, lovely Thorin. The love I had to see die…_

Bilbo shook his head, tears stinging his warm, ash-brown eyes. The tears were salty as they ran down the hobbit’s soft cheeks. Bilbo stood, grabbing his handkerchief along the way, and decided to wonder his home. Sunlight streamed through the windows as Bilbo walked without destination – wiping at his tears and pondering how he had somehow transported from once place to another. Judging by his young, healthier body it seemed as though it was not only location in which Bilbo was moved, but time also. Bilbo halted abruptly in front of a full-length mirror which adorned one of the many wooden walls of his home; silently and wide eyed, he stared back at his reflection. His red-rimmed eyes swiftly glanced over his body – so renewed it looked; he nearly mistook himself for another. His chestnut ringlets shimmered in the light from the morning sun, cheeks rosy and skin tight without wrinkles. Bilbo poked and prodded his belly, seeing nothing but a small, giggly tummy; as opposed to his usual pot-belly. Bilbo’s eyes once again glimmered with un-shed tears;

“I- I’m _alive._ I can walk, breathe and _feel again_.”

With that awe-struck whisper, the overwhelmed hobbit promptly fainted onto his shining, hard-wood floor.

* * *

 

Bilbo groggily came around roughly an hour or two later, his mind struggling to comprehend such news so quickly. The hobbit stood, as he had been laying in shock for a good fifteen minutes, and shook his head; berating his actions. _You are a Baggins, of Bag End; you will not waste such an opportunity at life once again. Whether or not you are aware of how this came about; it is a blessing from Yavanna and you will not take it lightly!_ Bilbo nodded at his reflection, as though to reassure himself, and decided a cup of tea and a hearty breakfast was in order.

The smell of tomatoes and eggs being fried wafted through the window Bilbo had opened, sending a pleasant smell down the rolling hills and over the river. Bilbo hummed as he cooked; reaching into the oven and taking his apple, cinnamon and walnut muffins out to cool – they let out a huge fragrance of warmth, a comforting memory soaking over his frost-touched mind. He plated up his breakfast – impatiently taking a muffin anyway – and sat leisurely to enjoy the warm food. Bilbo was fully content to ignore the oliphant in the room for the moment, for he knew as soon as he paid it mind, he would not be indulging in such comforts for a good long while. After a lengthy time of happily picking at his crumbs, Bilbo placed his dishes back into his sink for cleaning; though they would have to wait – he had more important things to ponder. The hobbit sat in his favourite arm-chair, staring at the cold hearth; deep in thought.

If his sense of time was correct, the Hobbit was to assume it was near the day Gandalf came “looking for someone to share in an adventure with.” With a quick glance at his calendar, and at his wrist-watch, he concluded that in one day and four hours Gandalf would make his appearance, and the next day the dwarves would come. _Meddling wizard, he already told the dwarves that I knew of this quest far before I actually did!_ Bilbo sighed as he gathered himself up off his arm-chair and to his desk in the next room. _If I’m going to be repeating my life I’m going to do it right. No more doilies, handkerchiefs and cups of tea for you, Bilbo. It’s time to take back Erebor without letting Durin’s sons die before they can see their home reclaimed._

Bilbo collected a large piece of parchment, his quill and ink, and set himself out to work.

* * *

 

It was long after second breakfast, past the time for elevenses and was soon to be lunch by the time Bilbo was done scribbling furiously. The hobbit wiped at his brow, the grumbling in his stomach slowly starting to ache from being neglected. Bilbo pushed back his chair, ignoring the harsh noise, and stared down at his work with something resembling pride and nostalgia. It was a time-line of Bilbo’s years since being introduced to Thorin’s Company – from when he was first recruited by Gandalf to his last memory atop the Misty Mountains. Every little event, detail and important conversation was noted down.

It was an understatement to say Bilbo was proud of his work – but before he could become too enthralled with his memory, his stomach decided to protest once more. Bilbo’s eyes widened as he caught a glance at the clock, “Oh my – is it that time already?” Bilbo quickly squabbled to his kitchen, picking out different vegetables for a stew. As Bilbo chopped away at carrots and let his pre-baked bread rolls heat in the oven, he let his thoughts wonder to his one love; the one he called king, Thorin. It had been a long, _long_ while since he last stared into the blue eyes that haunted his dreams. The black, unruly hair that got caught on Bilbo’s short, yet thin fingers. The very hair that felt as soft as silk yet as itchy as hay. The scruffy beard that tickled the top of his head each time they embraced; the beard that Bilbo didn’t get to see grey with age. The, usually tan skin that paled with his injury and death-

Bilbo’s somber thoughts were soon over-ruled by the powerful smell of crisp and toasty rolls and the bubbling of his stew. Bilbo’s hands were quick to move his pot and tray onto his kitchen-top to cool, grief still stinging like a newly-opened wound. “Don’t Bilbo. Just don’t. You can’t afford to cry and wallow in self-pity and regret. Honestly you did that enough last life-time.” Bilbo was starting to get concerned with the amount of times he had talked to himself in just a few hours; but it’s safe to say the hobbit was used to being alone with only his thoughts for company.

Bilbo served up a bowl of stew with two buttery rolls to dunk, placing his food down and putting the kettle to boil over the small fire he put together. An hour later Bilbo was slurping the last remains, the, incredibly full, hobbit brought over his dishes and began cleaning his mess. Drying his spoons with his dish-towel, Bilbo stared out of his window, memories flying through his mind like smoke his pipe. “Oh will need to visit the market – I have a feast to prepare for and 15 mouths to feed. Oh and provisions! I will need to by some rope, perhaps more suitable attire? It’s hardly acceptable to go on a year-long adventure dressed in vests with only one coat!” Bilbo reprimanded himself; he really didn’t dress proper last time. He would need to get shoes – yes, he is a hobbit and generally doesn’t have a need for footwear, but there’s one thing their feet aren’t accustomed to. Weather, hobbit’s feet are weak to heat and cold. Bilbo could step on a needle and it’d bend, but step on an ice-cube and he’s covered in goose-bumps and is slipping over! The Shire doesn’t really experience major weather; not since Fell Winter, so hobbits aren’t seen with shoes on as it’s typically uncomfortable. It would be hard to find a good quality pair in The Shire; maybe a quick trip to Bree would be in order…

Bilbo placed the last of his cutlery in his kitchen draws, placing the kitchen towel down on the counter-top. Bilbo shuffled out of this kitchen, down the hallway and into his bedroom – best get ready for the day. The young hobbit picked out a nice, casual outfit of a cream tunic and brown trousers, with a bright orange waist-coat for good measure. Bilbo hummed as he collected his bag of coin, combing his hair one last time before abandoning hope. His curls were too unruly for _that_. Bilbo quickened his pace and opened his door, eyes skimming to where he knew Gandalf would carve the ruin which stated “burglar for hire.” _Best not to look for a painter, now, his work would be vandalised! Ridiculous wizards!_ Bilbo eyed the crumbling green paint with distain as he swung the door shut with a soft bump; locking the door for good measure. Bilbo turned and looked at his view, green hills and flowers filling his eyes. _I never thought I would see The Shire again!_ Bilbo thought as he glanced over the winding paths. _Oddly enough the peacefulness is maddening – guess I’m used to excitement by now._ The hobbit walked down the steps, opening and closing the gate around himself and down he went to the bustling market.

Bilbo dodged left as a group of fauntlings ran past, giggling in their childish excitement. Bilbo made his way to the long path of grocers, making note of all the food he would need for the feast, and also for the road. _Dried meat, nuts, fruits, water canteens – oh how about a roast for the dinner? They would love it! With potatoes, carrots, bread-_ Bilbo paused and laughed to himself, oh how he would have fun filling the dwarves’ bellies once again.

Bilbo took his time at each vendor; purchasing only the freshest greens, the most tender meat and the spiciest seasonings. The hobbit had to borrow a wagon to bring all his shopping home! And how heavy each item was – he was surprised his back didn’t break! Bilbo loaded up his cupboards, leaving out the foods for the journey. It mostly consisted of non-perishables. He made sure to bring honey and bread, as he knew it was Kili and Fili’s favourite. He loved spoiling Kili and FIli; they were so excitable and appreciated each time he did. Bilbo sighed, a smile on his lips. He adored those two, and of course the rest of the company, but he guess their personalities helped lighten his spirits. They didn’t deserve to die; only young they were, a few years past their majority. Bilbo turned, shaking his head.

“No matter, Bilbo. You will see to it that they survive, even if you do not.” Bilbo knew this statement stood for Thorin and the rest of the company. He was not burying his Other Half again! The agonizing pain he felt was incomparable to any he had felt before; seeing the unblinking eyes of his lover was torture worse than thousands of tiny cuts to the body, for his pain could not be mended. His other half was gone, and without Thorin, Bilbo all-but died too. Bilbo sagged down into the closest chair, his resolve breaking down as he was reduced to tears. His shoulders trembled with the forces of his heart-wrenching sobs, hands cradling his head.

Oh how he missed his dear Thorin; his smiles, his touches like soft caresses on his body. Even in the darkest times, he was still as beautiful as ever. As the gold-sickness, the hereditary curse passed through him, his eyes still glimmered with hope. The first time he passed through his green door, his smirk had Bilbo’s heart beating out of his chest. The yearning had been difficult at first, as Thorin ignored him. Loving someone who ignores your existence is worse then not loving at all; for you know the feeling of adoration and desire and can do nothing. Yet as time passed Thorin opened up, he started sitting next to Bilbo and told long-lost stories of the mountain. Slowly and surely, Bilbo fell in love with the Dwarf king – and the King loved him back. Challenging Azog had won over Thorin’s heart, and thus the Whole was born and Bilbo had never felt so complete. Then for Thorin to be ripped so quickly and painfully from Bilbo was life-destroying, for it was like ripping his heart in two and burying half underground. Even after fifty odd years he had not healed, and he knew he never would for his love was unmatched.

Bilbo palmed at his eyes, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief. Bilbo laughed bitterly at the irony, for he only just noticed it was the same handkerchief he had forgotten the first time around. _No use in crying over lost, old, memories; it’s time to make some new ones._ With that oddly comforting thought, Bilbo stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and set out to work once more.

* * *

 

Bilbo’s bones were all-but dragging the poor hobbit to the ground. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he tilted his head to the left slightly, admiring hours’ worth of work. Before him, on the large wooden dining table, sat everything he could possibly desire to bring with him on journey. Bilbo had made sure to pack the non-perishables in small, tight, pockets. His clothes, all either his late mother’s, or hastily purchased from the market, were practical and hardy. Mainly made of beige, insulated tunics; rough leather coats and tough trousers – Bilbo left no space for brightly coloured coats and doilies. To Bilbo’s absolute pleasure, he managed to buy a pair of – albeit expensive – shoes, without having to venture to Bree at all! They were tough, made of the hide of a particularly small, but large to him, animal Bilbo couldn’t identify. They were practical enough. 

It was with pleasure that Bilbo, hours beforehand, scrounged around his mother’s old belongings; and oh! He was not disappointed.  He found a well-worn (and warm) coat, slightly too feminine for his tastes, but he took it regardless. It smelt like blueberries, bark, and grass – it made Bilbo’s eyes tear up; he hadn’t smelt his mother in years.  Hidden beneath the dresses and trousers he found a chest, unlike his mother’s glory box, so proudly on display in his home. Doubled over in a long-abandoned wardrobe at the very back of his home, Bilbo huffed and puffed as he pulled the heavy chest from the darkness.

It was long and its depth great, stained red and adorned with carvings along the edges; it was a beautiful piece of work. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Bilbo figured his mother knew no one would be snooping in her wardrobe. Despite its beauty, the real treasure was inside.

Bilbo lowered himself to his knees as he lifted the lid of the chest open, his breath catching at the weaponry tucked neatly away. His fingers made quick work of pulling each weapon out one by one; small throwing knives, bottled poisons, an onyx-hilted silver dagger, and lastly – a loosened reflex bow, along with an abundance of sharp-pointed arrows. Bilbo spent no time admiring them any longer, he’d done it enough so in his first timeline (after the adventure, he was terribly bored, and explored his home in greater detail, finding the treasure hoard months late.) Bilbo carefully closed the lid, pushed it back into the wardrobe, gathered his weapons, and brought them to his bag.

The ‘bag’ was in fact his pack, which was sufficiently loaded up with all the Hobbit could need, and more. All that was left to pack was the saddle bag, which would arrive tomorrow. Looking around, Bilbo stared at the pre-prepared food, his bag, and weapons. His heart raced in his chest. _Gods, I’m really doing this aren’t I?_ Bilbo let out a long sigh, a curl of his hair falling into his eyes. He turned, shuffling the hair behind his perfectly round, yet pointed ear, and retreated for his bedroom. _Last day of peace,_ he mused, _not sure whether to be glad or not._ He shook his head at himself, the curl once again falling into his eyes. Bilbo huffed out a laugh – _Remember when Thorin used to sweep the hair off your brow? The way he pulled at the curls, chuckling at the way it sprung back to its natural state, like a slingshot?_ Bilbo’s eyes glittered as his heart constricted. _Soon, Bilbo. Soon._

The Hobbit tucked himself under his covers; his eyes gazing out of the window, through the moonlight, and to what lay waiting beyond the rolling hills of the Shire.

 


End file.
